


01

by eryii



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eryii/pseuds/eryii
Summary: a broken boy and a mirror. what could possibly go wrong, hm?





	01

**Author's Note:**

> mild trigger warnings: alcohol, drugs, self-harm, other miscellaneous darker themes

The mirror propped upon the blank and otherwise plain walls was no friend of him anymore. Once ago his reflection was something he had almost-looked forwards to seeing. Now, it was a haunting reminder of all the things that went astray, a way to taunt himself about all the things he could've done differently. A crystalline, perfect view of every flaw, of every single thing that was wrong.

First of all, he was recovering from being intoxicated, which was already bad in itself. It wasn't like he didn't know that it was bad to do such feats like this, but it was the only thing that seemed to work nowadays. It kept him from screaming, throwing fits, and marking himself further as a deranged beast who had absolutely no self-control; it kept him suppressed and subdued.

It was stupid, but he missed the sensation of that tranquilizer, and he could have practically begged for it at some points within his mostly-isolation from, well, everything. He even seemed to avoid nourishment, which sadly sat forgotten and stale upon a plate, which he could observe from the corner of the mirrored image projected before his watchful gaze. A half-heartedly made cup of coffee stood still beside it, now-cold and most definitely untouched, save that for one sip that was taken just before he had decided that he was not thirsty anymore.

Scrutinizing came easy to him, and judgement always soon followed. Many of these marks were from cloak-related endeavours. Such as the one, that started just below left collarbone and had snaked its way down for a considerably impressive length. More temporary blemishes such as bruises had joined such an army.

Although it was mostly concealed by a simple tee, it would be ever-present, and he would be forever aware of its existence. The fabric of the shirt was not free of tears either, nay, it had slashes of its own in the front, most likely from a petty quarrel with whomever he decided to pick a fight with, and thus he could see glimpses and slivers of marred skin through it.

There were the cicatrices that were simply too concealed, too minor as well, or that he simply wished to not acknowledge, such at the ones that ran horizontally against thighs, and the remainders of punctures wound upon foot and hand, yet there were the invisible, but not unseeable scars too. Perhaps the greatest damage done was to his own psyche. His poor, pitiful state of mentality that clung to the last bits of rationality like moss did to rocks, only much looser with its grip: he could admit it slipped and fell all too often.

He peered closer, aiming cutting, bitter thoughts which were targeted at his visage specifically, the flesh there ruined by a slight diagonal gash that started near his lip, crossed over the bridge of his nose, and just missed his left eye, bestowed to him by a recurring enemy. Forearms were the same way, yet his face was truly the main attraction. They were rosy at the ends with anger, and stood out in that way, but would hopefully fade into a thin pale and hidden line of white.

"You're not supposed have problems," he told it as a whole, as if he were to chide a little kid, yet this was not one; rather this was his own self. A step backwards to fully view the bigger picture. "Yet, here you are."


End file.
